


The Queen's Favorite

by WendyNerd



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Queen in the North, Unbeta'd, rejection fic, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: A fic that I’ve gotten requests for, including from @jandsstark and @what-would-ww-do! The theme being: post season 8, Jon realizes he doesn’t deserve Sansa.





	The Queen's Favorite

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd!
> 
> Oh, and fan cast Charlie Cox as Ser Patrek (not Stardust Charlie Cox, Daredevil Charlie Cox. But, you know, in a doublet… So… if Netflix did an adaptation of Marvel 1602?).

Jon:

Perhaps he should expect the way his former brother turns expectantly towards him, blue eyes mild. Jon barely recognizes the sweet, adventurous boy he knew in this stoic youth.

Bran used to smile easily and purely. But now, while the corners of his lips may turn upwards, there’s something missing. This person who calls himself Bran and the three-eyed raven does not feel joy. Or anything, really.

“Hello, Jon,” Bran says in that frustratingly mild tone, “What may I help you with? If it’s about your parents, I’m afraid I’ve told you all that I can.”

Jon purses his lips. This isn’t about that at all. But the mention of it summons some embarrassment. In perspective, his purpose here now is stupid, superfluous, shallow. He’s not even sure why he’s asking.

Sansa, on a personal level, is no longer his responsibility. He relinquished his right to interfere with her life when he swore himself to Daenerys. It’s a decision he made out of fear and panic, a desperation to keep the dragon queen from withdrawing support from their cause. But it proved futile. Daenerys is still the North’s ally for now, but Jon has not managed to give her what she wants. Between the Ice Dragon and Daenerys’s refusal to keep her remaining dragons at least ten miles from every densely populated landmark, the North made its decision. Their former king could call Daenerys his queen if they wished, but they shall not.

Thus, Sansa is crowned, and not just to rule the North. The Vale enthusiastically joined the call in swearing themselves. And it didn’t end there. As it turned out, Sansa sent a couple thousand men to take back the Trident as well in order to restore her uncle to Riverrun, secure the lordless Harrenhal (left without one upon Littlefinger’s execution), swell their numbers, and increase the buffer zone between the North and the Lannisters.

A delegation, led by Lord Jason Mallister’s heir, declared for Hoster Tully’s granddaughter. Jon’s cousin, his former half-sister Sansa, is no longer mere lady of Winterfell. She is Her Grace Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen of the Three Realms of the North, the Vale, and the Trident.

When Daenerys threatened to burn the castle alive for the “treason”, one of the castle tower ballistas fired at Rhaegal and clipped his wing. The response suddenly became more diplomatic, with both young queens coming together to end the threat of the Dead.

The Stark forces and influences have been swollen by the enthusiastic support of the Riverland army. Sansa ended up bringing a Riverlord’s delegation to decide who they preferred.

As it turned out, the Trident has as much interest in dragonfire as the rest. Daenerys watches, aghast as Patrek Mallister, heir to Seaguard, came before the whole court to announce that it was Stark forces that freed him from the Frey camp. Him and numerous other heirs owe their freedom to the Queen in the North. Many, many we quite insistent on this, from Lord Blackwood to Lord Piper. But the charismatic head of the delegation seemed most passionate about the issue.

Amidst throngs of cheering people, Daenerys watched, lemons in her mouth, as over half the continent swore themselves to their new queen. The girl who had been a fugitive just a year ago and since managed to restore her home and bring order to the North and protect and feed people during Ice dragon attacks. A true queen.

Daenerys could not do much to stop it, either, except threaten fire and death upon countless innocents for simply not choosing her. It was then that Jon chose to reveal his identity to her and threaten her out of that idea. It was a positive move on his part all around. He was especially sure of that when he was thrown out of her chambers. But hours later, she was reluctantly swearing an oath of friendship with the new Queen of three realms.

It was perhaps stupid of Jon to think that at this point, he might have a chance. After months and months of self-loathing over his feelings for his “sister”, he’s learned that isn’t the case while stuck in a liaison with his aunt. Perfection. But after Daenerys rejected him, this was finally his opportunity.

He’d have to take his time, of course. The two of them were raised as siblings. She’d need time to get used to the idea. And he’d give her as much of that time as he could, considering.

So, the evening after Daenerys swore her vow—- Sansa looked beautiful, her head held high and her eyes shining, triumphant, Jon snuck up to her door with a bottle of Arbor Gold. When she comes to the door, she looks shocked and keeps it partially closed.

Jon holds up the bottle. “I thought we might celebrate, Your Grace.”

“Oh!” She glances behind her briefly, then looks back. “That’s very sweet of you, Jon, it is, but I’m not feeling particularly well right now. Perhaps another night?”

He frowns and reaches up to feel her brow, “You don’t feel feverish.”

“It’s… a headache. It’s nothing. Nothing that a bit of rest can’t cure, I’m sure.”

There’s a thump in the background. The hair on the back of Jon’s neck stands on end and, ignoring her protests, he pushes past her.

To find a man in her chambers crouching over a fallen bronze pitcher. Jon immediately unsheathes Longclaw, ready to skewer the intruder.

The man stands and holds up his hands. It’s then that Jon notices that he’s not wearing his boots and that his upper body is clothed solely by a purple tunic.

Jon recognizes him now: average height, reddish-brown hair and beard, brown eyes, muscular build, perfect jawline, and an easy smile. That easy smile appears, albeit sheepishly as he rises. Jon’s blood burns when he sees that smirk. He’d like to slice that grin right off his face.

“I am a guest in this house, My Lord,” Ser Patrek Mallister reminds him with an arched brow.

“Put that away, Jon, honestly!” Sansa snaps, annoyed. Jon looks at her, utterly aghast. Mallister is easily ten years her senior.

He does sheathe his blade, but quickly asks, “Where is your chaperone?”

Sansa scoffs. “Chaperone? Jon, honestly, I’m a widow and, in case you missed it, Queen, now. I am not some blushing maid who requires a beady-eyed Septa to look over my shoulder.”

Jon scowls. She’s not even denying what this is? But, for the purposes of confirmation, he asks, “What are you doing with him?”

“None of your business, Jon. Now, thank you for the wine, but this is none of your concern. Please leave!”

“I’m not going to let you—”

She practically pushed him out, breaking his heart in the process.

First place he goes, of course, are Bran’s rooms. But now that he’s here, he’s second-guessing himself. How does he ask this without betraying himself?

Jon hesitates and goes, “I’m worried about our sister. Her and Mallister—”

“—Are happy right now,” Bran says significantly, “There is no cause for alarm.”

Jon steps forward, “Can you at least just look? Make sure she’s not—”

“Jon, doing you honestly think Sansa, after everything she’s been through, would open herself up to a man without checking with me first? I’ve looked into his past, present, and future. He used to drink and whore too much up until he was taken prisoner during the Red Wedding. All things he told Sansa about when he began pursuing her. Now he spends less time carousing and more time serving his father’s people and lands. He’s a fine man. He’s not lied to or hurt her, or done anything dishonorable.”

This angers Jon far more than if Bran told him that Mallister was Aegon the Unworthy born again. But he has to hold back his frustration, or betray himself. He marches out of Bran’s rooms to his own and paces furiously.

_What did you expect? For her to remain alone forever? She’s young and beautiful and you’ve been gone for nearly a year! Perhaps if you’d done as Sansa suggested and sent an emissary to Dragonstone we wouldn’t be in this mess!_

_I was trying to get away from her at the time, I thought she was my sister!_

_You’d have found out the truth much sooner had you been less of a coward. She’s an adult woman, more than capable of taking care of herself. She took care of an entire country while you were off nearly getting yourself killed beyond the Wall. This is her decision. You must respect it._

Maybe he must, but he can’t simply accept it.

_You were her brother and you almost made her kneel to a foreign invader after taking a crown that should have been hers and throwing it away on a woman who brought an Ice Dragon to Westeros because of a useless pact Sansa warned you not to pursue. Did you think she would want to throw herself into your arms? Why? Because of that battle she won for you? That you nearly ruined because you fell into a trap she warned you about? Or because you’ve embraced her a few times?_

They were excellent embraces. At least, he thought so.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

By his own admission, Sansa wouldn’t have liked Patrek if she’d met him a few years prior, when he was squandering his time drinking and whoring and actually hoping for a war to achieve some “glory”, which, Patrek also admits, he wouldn’t have been able to define.

“Two years in a Frey dungeon has an effect on a person,” he tells her wearily, pulling her into his lap, “I realized that I was no hero, no great personage. That I was stuck in a cell, waiting for someone to rescue me, a pawn in everything, boosted by nothing I’d created myself, just a name.”

Sansa rests a hand upon Patrek’s cheek, feeling the contrast of clear skin and stubble. It’s hard to imagine him as a lout or a prisoner, with such a kind, honest appearance. Faces can be deceptive, though. Her own courtier’s smile proves that.

Patrek isn’t young. Or, at least, he’s not as young as Sansa. He is a good friend of her Uncle Edmure, though he’s well younger than him. He’s one-and-thirty. But there’s something sweet and incurably boyish about his expression that only ever makes him looks mischievous at worst. He has a trickster’s smile sometimes, but unlike Petyr’s, there is no cruelty to it. Sansa has no doubt that Patrek has had his years of being thoughtless, petty, irresponsible, and callous, but even at his worst, she has a hard time imagining any true malice behind it. People who are deliberately malicious rarely have this level of self-awareness without practically flagellating themselves over it.

Patrek accepts what he was, and tries to be better now with a stalwart and somehow hopeful practicality. He’s a child of summer, perhaps, but he is ready to meet the winter. He knows how awful he was to break some milkmaid’s heart in his youth, but he’s insightful enough to know that there are more pressing matters than his own guilt and that everyone, including that milkmaid, is better off if he puts his mind to contributing as much as he can to the danger facing them now.

“We were all idiots when we were young,” she tells him, “I thought I was a lady from a song. I expected to be loved, and thought pretty, refined people were good.”

His face falls a bit. “The difference, though, Love, is that when you mention your youthful stupidity, you’re referring to your thirteenth year. When I refer to mine, I refer to my thirteenth year up until well into my twenty-seventh. I wasn’t even half-finished creating regrets when I was your age. I was stumbling out of barns with my hose about my knees. You are the unanimously chosen queen of three realms whose governance has been admired and praised by experienced and accomplished lords and ladies old enough to be your grandparents.”

Sansa blushes. When Patrek says things like this, it has an effect almost unlike anything she’s ever known. The closest anyone has gotten to making her feel truly proud, recognized, and flattered is when Jon quietly informed her after her ascension that she deserved it. Others have praised her, of course. Though Sansa has noticed that she’s gotten far less praise for feeding the populace and clearing the roads than her deposed cousin got for his supposed military victory (that was actually hers). But that is the way of things: war is glorified, feats of martial prowess are the ideal, the things that get preserved by songs and stories. No one ever writes a ditty about resource allocation, even if said resource allocation is what enables those armies to fight in the first place. No one wanted to sing of edicts and budgets. Battles were more lyrical.

When she is praised for her unglamorous contributions, she usually looks for a motive behind it. Cynicism is not a habit easily broken, so when one of her courtiers move to praise her wisdom, she either wonders what they want from her, or bitterly notes the surprise in their voice, as if it is inconceivable, even after months and months of her deftly ruling this disaster-prone country, that a young woman can handle such responsibility. Even when people like Lord Royce, who she likes and trusts, tells her she’s made a wise decision, there’s an underlying message of, “What? How? You’re supposed to be stupid and dependent!”

Logically, she knows she should be suspicious of Patrek. By his own admission, he has a history of deceiving and flattering women. Part of her does suspect him, wondering what will happen the morning after she’s finally let him into her bed. She searches his face for a lie constantly. She even asked Bran to investigate him.

The worst her brother could come up with is, “The only reason he doesn’t have a gaggle of bastards is because his father was fastidious about delivering Moon Tea to his conquests’ doorsteps.”

She asked Arya to tail him for a day. “He went to the Wintertown tavern with some of his men, had a pint or two, but didn’t so much as pull one of the wenches into his lap.”

Abandoned loutishness aside, there could still be ulterior motives to Patrek’s pursuit. He may be saving his focus for the ultimate conquest — a queen, for example.

She is queen, and she cannot forget that. She has no shortage of suitors, really. Many of whom undoubtedly seek to rule the Three Realms via marriage to her. Patrek is the heir to his own lands, to Seagard. He will be one of the most powerful lords of the Trident some day, and should logically be seeking a wife from a noble house who can be his lady. But it’s possible he expects that Sansa will defer to him and cede control of her domains to her Lord Husband should they marry, and that House Stark shall become House Mallister.

Sansa’s afraid to ask. If that’s true, it will be a bitter disappointment. If it isn’t, he might be offended that she’d suspect such a thing, or feel repelled that she’s thinking of marriage at all.

So her policy thus far has been to just try to enjoy him while she can, and try not to fuss too much. With the war, it’s not as if there’s much pressure on her to marry immediately. Especially since she isn’t going to be fighting on the front lines. She has yet to share her bed with Patrek, who has shown nothing but patience, and if she does, she has a supply of Moon Tea to prevent any inconvenient pregnancies. As long as she is careful, stays devoted to her duty, and doesn’t let her heart get in the way of her head, she should be fine.

“True enough,” she agrees, pleased, “Not many would admit that, though.”

She’s promised herself that the moment Patrek asks for a favor, she shall end things. She’s even told Arya as much. “If I should tell you of some underhanded request, or begin giving him undeserved perks, you are to stop me.”

If Patrek is here for a crown, she will let him announce it, and end things there. It’s not about power, but about duty. She was trusted by her people to take on the responsibility of leading them, to protect their rights, their independence,and protect their faith in her, the monarch they chose. She cannot hand that honor off to some power-hungry potential lover. She is not Jon.

Sansa has to marry, of course. One of her duties is providing an heir. But her husband shall have to take the Stark name, play the role of consort, and accept her regency. Her vassals shouted “Queen in the North”, not “Queen-until-she-finds-a-king-to-marry in the North.”

She’s even debated giving her husband the courtesy title of “King.” “King” in practically every legal and social context is synonymous with “regnant.” It doesn’t have the flexibility of the “queen” title. If she names whomever she marries “King”, it might create some legal loopholes that threaten her status and authority. After all the North has suffered, stability is key to its survival. Part of that stability is having an unquestioned, strong, solid monarch. That was half the reason Jon bending the knee was so unacceptable. If Sansa takes a king, she will no longer be unquestioned.

The issue is that there’s no precedent for this sort of thing. At least, not one on the books.

But even if she marries someone content to treat king as purely a courtesy title, that doesn’t mean others can’t twist it, or that their families will see it that way. And even those suitors who wouldn’t usurp her authority may still want to be called “king”, regardless.

She doesn’t know. When she looks into Patrek’s warm brown eyes, though, she doesn’t see a man searching for a crown.

“I’ve noticed, with all due respect, that the men of this realm aren’t fond of using many words, whether it’s to admit a personal failing or otherwise,” remarks Patrek, “They’re very loud, but not very verbose.”

Perhaps it’s stupid of her, carrying on like this with a man at this time, but… Everything is so hard and confusing and terrifying. And so very, very lonely. Nearly every waking minute is spent going over ledgers, receiving petitions, signing documents, conducting council meetings, making sure that roads are cleared, refugees are housed, troops are deployed, enemies are watched, ballistas are maintained, supplies are sent and received, battles are planned. All while hoping that the Dragon Queen will not change her mind all of a sudden about accepting the North’s independence and burn them all. It’s all on her. Everyone is depending on her.

It’s not as if she has calm periods, either. That her moments come during attacks and battles. No, Sansa feels like she’s constantly engaged in battle. On the surface, people might scoff at this, claiming there are no enemies charging towards her to kill her. But starvation, disease, subterfuge, and revolt are every bit as deadly and far, far more subtle. They’re invisible enemies. She has to fight them off, while also providing the actual armies the means to fight at all. It doesn’t matter how great your numbers are or how skilled your commander is, if your soldiers are too weak to move from hunger, illness, or untreated injury, or don’t have weapons or armor to defend themselves, or can’t walk because a lack of adequate footwear have rendered their feet bloody and broken, defeat is inevitable. In addition to providing the supplies, she must keep the roads clear enough to deliver them, make sure they are handled by trustworthy and qualified people, keep track of the needs and positions of their forces across vast distances, and coordinate defenses back home. She has to do all this while ensuring that there are no traitors in her court trying to sabotage or murder her, while keeping her vassals happy so that they continue to provide their vital support. And she must get all of this done while observing, respecting, and adhering to the codes that protect her peoples’ rights. And making sure her home is always ready to defend itself from a dragon attack, Ice or otherwise.

Meanwhile, Cersei Lannister is gathering up an army to finish off the weakened victor of the War for the Dawn. Which, of course, is just one part of the vast issue that is planning for the future after the war and the winter, which Sansa also needs to do if her country is going to recover from everything, stay united once the common enemy is gone, and thrive.

And she just… She wants something. Something in her life right now that grants her some relief, some joy. Something that briefly lets her forget that the world is on her shoulders. Something that satisfies some manner of yearning within her.

This is winter, there are no lemons growing anymore.

Furs can only do so much to keep her warm. Sansa leans against Patrek’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and sighs. “Some people talk at length and end up saying nothing at all.”

“Nothing of substance anyway.”

It’s probably stupid, wrong, and selfish for her to still, on some level, want a handsome, charming man to kiss and comfort and praise her. But she has to be wise, right, and selfless all the time. She barely even feels like a person anymore. More like the pedestal for a crown.

Sansa doesn’t resent or hate her power… far from it. As queen, she is more secure than she’s ever been. She doesn’t have to answer to any lord, no one can force her to do anything she doesn’t wish to do. Instead, she can order others to do things like donate grain or take in smallfolk. She’s restored House Stark and their home and there’s less risk of having it taken from her than ever before. And, while her efforts are less likely to be recognized than those of generals and commanders, it makes them no less rewarding. Every day she watches people stand in line for food, people who would be starving if not for her organization and leadership, having healthy rations of bread, turnips, meat, and stringed beans placed in the hands instead of trying to eat leather and sawdust. People who are living in the camps she set up, who would have been killed by Ice Dragon attacks had she not used Bran’s abilities to warn her and evacuated areas beforehand. When she watches men march off to battle, she has the comfort that, at the very least, they have adequate armor and weapons because she made sure of it. That there are lords and ladies who are feeding and housing smallfolk who would have left them in the cold had Sansa not interceded.

Maybe there will never be songs of this, and maybe Lord Royce and the others still seem surprised by her competence, but Sansa knows she isn’t unnoticed. She’s hailed and followed whenever she walks through the camps or rides through town. People look at her not just with the deference of her rank, but with hope and love. Many are not afraid to personally approach her in the streets about some issue or another. She’s received many tearful thanks from mothers and fathers whose children have had their first full meal in many moons. Or whose daughter was the target of one of Ramsay’s “hunts.” A crown of the most precious metals and gems couldn’t make her feel as good.

Sansa watches the flames dance within the hearth.

It even makes her fear the Dragon Queen less. Daenerys sees how Sansa is regarded. She notices. The woman has come to Westeros promising to “break the wheel” of tyranny by the powerful families (except her own, of course), has built her reputation on being the “chosen” queen. The “Breaker of Chains”. A benevolent, yet powerful liberator. Burning a castle filled with innocent men, women, and children in it because they didn’t want to kneel to her is the antithesis of that. She’s already threatened to withhold support and let the White Walkers destroy the North if Jon didn’t bend the knee. She’s already burnt Randyll Tarly and his young son, Dickon, alive, for denying her. She lost the Martells, the Greyjoys, and the Tyrells. The status of the Reach and the Dorne are shaky, to say the least. She’s brought Dothraki, famous for their brutality, for raping and pillaging innocents, to these shores. And one of her dragons became the mount of the Night’s King in an effort to secure a futile alliance with Cersei Lannister. Then she ignored the request of the North (the place that has suffered all the Ice Dragon attacks thus far) to keep her own dragons at least ten miles from highly populated areas.

Daenerys was told by Jon that even if he bent the knee, his people would not accept a Southern leader. She refused to believe it, insisting they would if their king said so. Then, when they arrived in the North and Jon announced it, the people unanimously rejected her and crowned Sansa instead. Not out of fear, not because they were deceived. This was their choice, based on merit.

Given her current track record in Westeros, Daenerys is already having trouble convincing the people that she’s any different from Cersei. The Reach reacted with horror to Dickon Tarly’s death in particular, and currently maintain steadfast neutrality. As for Dorne, it already had divisions since Ellaria Sand’s takeover was based on nothing more than kinslaying, and most of the lords there, while harboring no love for the Tarly’s, are similarly disturbed by the deaths, and are suspicious of any queen who would ally with someone who based their power on murdering children and relatives.

The Starks have pledged their friendship, and Sansa has even promised to deploy her remaining forces after the war to help Daenerys defeat Cersei and take the Iron Throne, even if the North, Vale, and Riverlands were no longer part of her domains. Daenerys’s long-lost Stark nephew has promised not to challenge her for the throne despite a superior claim. The Starks are well-known to be honorable, good, and to have suffered horribly, and to be the first a sole responders to the threat the continent faces. Winterfell is not only home to a household of decent people, but is filled with and surrounded by innocent refugees. Displaced, defenseless men, women, and children. And it hosts many respectable and important lords and ladies. All of whom adore, trust, and respect their young queen, the long-suffering, dutiful Sansa Stark, who has known so much cruelty and tragedy and has emerged from it wise and kind.

If Daenerys destroys Winterfell, she destroys any chance of being anything more than a “Mad Queen.” She destroys herself.

It wouldn’t be Aegon the Conqueror burning Harren the Black alive within Harrenhal. That’s already controversial, but at the very least, Harren was a known monster, a vicious, brutal warlord who tortured, enslaved, and killed countless innocents to create his monster of a castle. Winterfell is a centuries-old bastion of defense and leadership in the North, the most famous solace against the harshest winds of winter, ruled by the oldest and most honorable and arguably respected House in Westeros. And it is filled not with raping pirates but refugees.

By burning Winterfell, the Mother of Dragons will have committed an unprecedented, unforgivable, and vicious war crime out of pettiness. She’ll be a mass-murderer, liar, hypocrite, and lunatic. She’ll have not only slaughtered countless innocents, but destroyed her only remaining ally in Westeros and the North’s primary defenses, leaving her own armies vulnerable. The Night’s King has already taken one of her dragons, and a second was wounded by a ballista. Both incidents happened because of Daenerys’s own stupidity. She lost a dragon and dragged a wight to King’s Landing to have a tea party with Cersei Lannister, but burned the last of honorable Ned Stark’s children and all their people alive. Over a title. Not the Iron Throne, which Cersei Lannister sits upon, but one that the people of the North, Trident, and Riverlands begged their leader to take.

She’ll have destroyed the oldest House of Westeros, and numerous important lords and ladies as well, with absolutely no respect to their status, their families, their names, their people. That does not bode well for ANY noble family. None of them will be willing to accept Daenerys. Between Viserion’s death and Rhaegal being wounded, her dragons are not invincible. And with Winterfell gone, Daenerys will have left herself right in the open path of the army of the Dead. Even if she does manage to win that, her armies will be severely depleted, and will have Cersei and the Golden Company waiting for them. And they will be without a shred of support from anyone in Westeros.

Such a thing is not just a matter of soldiers, either. There are also issues of transportation and accommodation, not to mention supplies. Between the Red Keep and Daenerys’s current location is the entire North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Daenerys’s ability to cross rivers, stay at castles, set camp in fields will all have to be attained under threat of Dragonfire. She’ll be a pillager in every sense of the word. And if the citizens (possibly headed by the noble families whose parents and siblings died when Daenerys burned Winterfell) decide to organize a resistance, she’s even worse off. Some kingdoms may even decide that Cersei is preferable, since Cersei has no dragons. She also immolated many innocent people, including a Great House, but she had to lure them all into one building to do it. Far less dangerous. And even she was still forced to do things like repay her debts to the Iron Bank and betroth herself to a pirate. She’d be much easier to control and stand against.

Overseas powers might also get involved. The Iron Bank was already backing Cersei over the collapse of the slave trade in Dragon’s Bay. But the destruction of Winterfell might make several other kingdoms and cities nervous about the rising power of this mad, dragon-riding conqueror. It’s not as if her conquests in Essos were exactly peaceful. Even those governments with no interest in the slave trade might fear that the Mad King’s Daughter will decide to outdo her forebears and expand her empire beyond Westeros, and reign fire down upon them. After all, if she was willing to murder the famously benevolent Starks for being independent, what would stop her from burning Pentos? Braavos? Yi-Ti? The Summer Isles?

Burning Winterfell would make enemies of everyone, diminish her defenses against an army that has already claimed one of her dragons, and paint her forever as a bloodthirsty lunatic. No one would trust her, want her, respect her. Just fear and revile her.

Daenerys, despite her prior actions, likes to think herself a force for good, wants to believe everything she says of herself, despite her “Submit or burn” policy. On some level, she knows this. So she’s yet to burn them all alive. If it’s out of basic decency or self-preservation, Sansa cannot be sure. But she feels more secure as a queen of the people than one of ashes, fire, or blood.

Still, people are fickle, she knows this. And that doesn’t make her life anything less of a constant struggle. And she just… she just…

She feels a protrusion rising from between Patrek’s legs, pushing into her thigh, and her lip curls.

Patrek doesn’t pretend to be a model of virtue, or a perfect repentant. He doesn’t act like his improved character is a burden, or something deserving of praise. And Sansa believes that even if he’s not in love with her, even if motives aren’t pure altruism, that he does possess some genuine affection for her, and that it isn’t just about her looks. They have long conversations well into the night, and when he responds to her, he always has an engaged and insightful comment or query, and he always recalls prior conversations, so she knows he’s not merely pretending to listen.

Sometimes, he does get distracted, but he always admits it. Then there are other times, when they’re sitting by the fire and it’s gotten truly late, and he drifts off to sleep, his fingers in her hair, halted where he’s been stroking it.

There are also his impressions of the members of the court, wicked, accurate, and hilarious. Sometimes she laughs so hard she can’t breathe. And it just feels so, so good to laugh, especially at something irreverent, inconsequential, and immature. Most of her laughter over the past several years has come from observations and sarcastic remarks so morbid that she has to laugh to keep from crying. So something like this is a wonderful respite.

And he is very handsome. And he truly looks like a man, not a boy. There’s definitely a boyishness in his looks, but it’s notable because he is so clearly an adult male. It’s not prettiness, like with Loras or Joffrey, though Patrek is gorgeous. But it’s the sort of beauty that can only be called handsomeness, not prettiness. And it’s not as if he’s some dirty, burly creature, either. He dresses very well. He is not shy about the fact that he prefers wine to ale. His manners are Southern and genteel. He doesn’t spend every other minute challenging other men to wrestling matches, arm wrestling, or drinking contests.

“What do I have to prove?” He’s said. “I survived nearly four years in a Frey dungeon while this lot were retreating to their castles. You rode off to war while they sat huddled by their hearths. I don’t need to prove myself to men who were outmatched in courage by a nineteen-year-old fugitive and a ten-year-old orphan.”

Sansa adjusts her position slightly, turning to look into her paramour’s eyes. They’re eyes that have seen terrible things, that have watched as their body, mind, and soul have endured cruelties. Patrek doesn’t go into much detail about his captivity. Sansa doesn’t mind, she doesn’t go into much detail about hers. Maybe someday, they will.

But these eyes still manage to be so warm. They’re the brown of burnt caramel. Fitting for him. Burnt, yes, but still full of sweetness and somehow richer for it. Sansa wonders if he sees any warmth in her own eyes, or if they’re just icy cold to him.

She only wishes he had a bit more affection for the North and its people. But Sansa consistently gets the impression from him that he considers her vassals to be a bunch of pompous, ignorant, tasteless louts and her to be too good for them. There is still a touch of snobbery to Patrek. And even when she tries to explain reasons her lords had for staying out of the war against Ramsay, his response is usually just to stroke her hair and declare her a far more understanding person than himself. He judges himself, yes, and he’s happy to judge others.

“So,” he says, wetting his lips, “Will I have to duel your brother tomorrow?”

“You’d have to get my permission to draw steel towards one another under my roof, and I shall not grant it.”

This does give her pause, though. She may not allow a duel, but there was nothing stopping Jon from requesting one. It is the sort of thing he might do, too. And if he does, people will wonder why, rumors will arise, and…

She neither wants or needs gossip. Sansa treasures what privacy she has, and she doesn’t have much.

“That being said…” she slips off of his lap, “Perhaps I should speak to him.”

“Now?”

“Well, if I wait until tomorrow, it could be too late. I don’t want to give him too much time to fly off the handle.”

Patrek clears his threat and folds his hands. “Are you sure that visiting him now would be prudent. He might have a… guest.”

Sansa flinches. He means the Dragon Queen, and he is right. Everyone knows about them. Some of her angrier vassals believe Jon betrayed the North and bent the knee so Daenerys would marry him and make him King of Westeros. Sansa doesn’t believe that part, but she also isn’t stupid. They do share a bed. And for some reason, every mention or reference to this fact always hits her like the blow of a lance.

She wanders over to her desk and pulls out some parchment. “I’ll go to his room and if it sounds like he is… entertaining… I will just pin this note to Ghost’s collar.”

Patrek rises from the sofa and goes to open the hall door. Ghost pads in casually, tail wagging, moving to greet Sansa. Her lover has been here enough times to know that the direwolf guards Sansa’s door faithfully all through the night, every night. Another thing which assures Sansa about Patrek is that the beast has yet to show any hostility towards him. Ghost always snarled at Petyr.

Sansa finishes scrawling her note.p, but doesn’t pin it. Folds the paper in her hands, she says bashfully, “I think I should at least try to speak to him about it in person, first. I mean, if it were your sister, wouldn’t you—?”

“You’re not his sister,” Patrek reminds her. And she nods.

“But he is still family. He’s still a wolf, and a pack sticks together if they wish to survive.”

Patrek purses his lips and says nothing. Sansa’s shoulders sag.

“What?”

“I just don’t think it’s fair that you’re so forthcoming with him and I’ve yet to see him return the favor.”

“I wasn’t always so open with him,” Sansa answers, thinking of the Knights of the Vale, “And I regretted it.”

“I think he’s entitled to a fair number more regrets than you at this point.”

Sansa sighs and walks to him. She kisses his cheek. “I won’t be long.”

~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

Eventually, his feet ached too much from pacing. Now he is slumped by the chair, staring at the fire, downing ale, and stewing.

He’s so alone.

Even as a bastard, he’s always been one of the court, a man of the North. Now, though? He’s a guest in his own home. He’s sworn himself to Daenerys, he’s her subject, of her court and kingdom. He’s not even Ned Stark’s son. He’s a Targaryen.

He and Daenerys haven’t formally said it yet, but they’re done. They haven’t shared a bed since Bran revealed everything. He’s been caught up in the horror that he’s bedded his aunt.

With Daenerys, he suspects, the horror is more at this greater claim to the Iron Throne than their blood relation. She was raised as a Targaryen, after all. Such things are typical for them. Him as her nephew was one thing, but as her rival? Not after all the work she’s done.

Perhaps she also sensed his lack of interest. That was another possibility.

Jon suspects, though it has not been confirmed, that there’s some sort of unspoken agreement between Daenerys and Sansa that Jon will live here should they survive the war in order to keep him and his claim out of the way. Jon doesn’t mind too much; he doesn’t want the throne and he loves Winterfell. But he doesn’t like being arranged for, and he doesn’t like the idea of living his life here as Daenerys’s nephew, not a true member of Sansa’s court.

What is left of his identity? His name, his birthplace, his father, his legitimacy, his title, his position… All changed. Jon isn’t even sure what his official title, style, and name are even more. Have all the legal relevant legal documents had ‘Jon Snow’ scratched out, with ‘Aegon Targaryen’ written in smaller letters above? Daenerys named him Warden of the North, but he’s pretty sure that is null with Sansa’s ascension. He’s Rhaegar’s trueborn son, so is he a prince now? Or just ‘Lord’? The servants address him as “My Lord”, but that’s more a formality.

Twenty-three years of age and he still has no idea who he is, what he’s doing, or what he should do.

Perhaps he should tell Sansa how he feels. She can send that Mallister brat packing. They could formalize their alliance with Daenerys through marriage and he could be a Stark again as her consort.

Maybe he should just ask to be sent out as soon as possible. Given a command and just get away. He’s good at fighting, even if he doesn’t enjoy it.

Jon nearly falls out of his seat when there’s a knock on the door. At this hour. His stomach lurches when he considers Daenerys. Oh, gods, please no.

Reluctantly, he goes to the door. His heart rises at the sight of Sansa. Oh, gods, yes.

Perhaps having him see her with Mallister made her realize something. Maybe she’s here to apologize and confess her true feelings. Maybe he’s had more than just a couple of cups of ale.

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “I need to speak to you about what you came upon this evening. I don’t want you to act like a fool and make a fuss.”

Jon stares at her blankly. Yes, more than two cups. He feels a bit indignant. “You run over to my chambers in the middle of the night and you’re worried _I’ll_ make a fuss?”

Sansa does blush, but she also persists. “Yes. I don’t want you… punching him at the breakfast table or challenging him to a duel for my honor or something. People will talk, and I can’t afford that. I know how you get.”

“Chivalrous?” He asks, half-teasing, half-hopeful.

“Over-protective.”

“I think I’m just the right level of protective, actually.” Without thinking, Jon raises his hand and clutches her cheek gently, “Why shouldn’t I want to protect you?”

“You’re free to want whatever you wish, Jon. Just don’t act on it. I’m a grown woman, and I am more than capable of taking care of myself now that I have the means.” She pulls his hand away.

He likes it when she gets annoyed. And her boldness is thrilling. He smiles. “Come in and have a drink with me, let’s discuss this.”

Sansa hesitates, but enters. “I don’t have time for a drink, but I prefer to speak behind closed doors,” she says, standing to face him, her arms crossed.

Jon sighs, his thoughts suddenly turning melancholy. “…It isn’t hard?”

“What isn’t hard?” She asks wearily.

Jon frowns. “After what happened to you. After what Ramsay did. I’d think after that, you’d need years and years before you could share a man’s bed again.”

Sansa’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens. “I… I… Not that it’s any of your business, but Patrek and I haven’t coupled.”

A wave of relief washes over Jon. “Really?!”

“Really. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

“Then why was he barefoot and down to his tunic?”

“We were in private, and he was getting comfortable. Sometimes he sleeps on my sofa, so he likes to shed a few layers just in case. We talk through the night sometimes.”

“And you like him?” Why?!

“Yes. He’s very genuine.”

“You’re sure of that?”

She bristles. “I know the difference, Jon!”

“Of course. Pardon me. I just want to be sure. I worry.”

She holds her head high then. “Well, I believe that’s it then.”

“That’s not it!” He sputters, “It’s entirely unsuitable! You’re a queen! Do you want people to think your morals have fled?!”

“I have proven my generosity, work ethic, loyalty, and devotion to the extent that they have named me queen. I have done too much good for my people to brand me completely dissolute based on what occurs in my bedchamber. Besides, Patrek and I are discreet. All I ask is that you follow suit.”

“Why should I?!” He demands. “Why should I be discreet about you making yourself into some lordling’s whore?”

Her face goes white again, and Jon loathes himself. He tries to speak up, to take it back, but his voice gets caught in his throat.

Sansa’s voice is like acid. “Because if you didn’t, it would make you the most traitorous, insensitive, despicable shit I know. Goodnight.”

She moves toward the door, but Jon grabs her wrist. “Wait!”

Sansa scowls. “What?”

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

“I love you.”

He says it out loud. It takes him several seconds to realize this. Sansa’s face goes slack and colorless. She knows what he means by that. There are several seconds of silence, where the world seems to stand still. Then the color returns to her face. And returns some more. And some more.

“Did you love me when you ignored my warnings about Ramsay and Cersei? When you suggested that I admired the woman who ruined my life? When you told me that even though I’d been raped and tortured within our home for months that you’d rather flee to somewhere warm than do anything about it? When you left me behind and didn’t write? When you accepted the crown instead of pointing out that it was I, not you, who won the Battle of the Bastards and was heir to the North? When you bedded Daenerys and offered her the country I risked my life for?”

It’s like a slap in the face. Jon releases her wrist and steps back. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Whenever I spoke to you, Jon, I felt like I was being ignored. You once outright mocked the idea of listening to me. Even though I’d been proven right before and ignoring me nearly got you killed. Even though I saved your life. The one time you seemed to consult me, you changed your opinion afterwards and announced it to the whole court without asking me. And you never once asked me anything else, either. Like what happened to me in King’s Landing. Why I kept Littlefinger near. I asked you plenty and you treated it as if I were undermining you. After years and years of being treated like a fool, a pawn, and useless, I got it from you as well. Even though we thought ourselves siblings at the time, that was your chance to prove the value of your ‘love.’ If you cannot appreciate my counsel, then you are unworthy of my heart.”

“I… I—”

“—And, you know, Jon, I’m not so sure that you do love me. I think that when you look at me, you don’t see me. You see all the things that were denied you. You see all the things you were told that a bastard like you wasn’t worthy of. I’m not a key, Jon. I’m not Key to the North, or to Winterfell, or to your legitimacy, or the key to proving all those nay-sayers wrong.”

It’s as if all his insides have disappeared. It hurts worse than Olly’s blade.

“Sansa, you have to—”

“—I don’t have to do anything you say, you’re not my king, and I don’t belong to you,” she snaps, “I belong to my subjects, and as per your choices, that doesn’t include you. I am Queen of the Three Realms, Regnant of over half of Westeros, Lady of Winterfell and Harrenhal! I don’t have to do anything that doesn’t involve keeping my people safe and fed. As long as I do that — and, let me remind you, I am, very, very effectively — I can do what I wish. I may bed Ser Patrek tonight. I may marry him tomorrow, or not. I may give him a child. A child I’ll declare a legitimate Stark and heir to my kingdom regardless of whether or not I wed. But I can’t do what I like with you. You belong to your aunt. The one you fucked. You’re her whore. And unlike me, that’s the only thing you can lay claim to anymore. Goodnight, My Lord.”

She slams the door behind her, leaving him speechless.

He crumbles to the floor once he’s too tired to stand anymore. He blacks out at some point, and is woken by another knock on his door. Joints in agony, Jon reluctantly rises and goes to open it…

…To find Patrek Mallister glaring at him.

He barely has time to react when the heir to Seagard has him by the collar and pushes him up against a wall.

“She told me everything, you Bastard Lizard-Fucker,” Mallister sneers, “I never thought you’d have the stones to tell her—”

“—You… You…” Jon chokes out.

“Me and everyone else at court,” Mallister says through clenched teeth, “You may not have inherited the Targaryen looks, but you sure as shit inherited their flair for subtlety. I’ve ignored it because I overestimated your sense of decency and thought you’d never say a word. But last night you proved me wrong and you called her a whore. Now, listen, I’m going to be around for as long as she wants me here, Snow, and you’re not going to get in the way, got it? And even if there’s a point where she’s not my lover, she will always be my queen and if you ever insult her again, I don’t care if I have to march all the way from Seagard. I’ll rip your tongue out.”

He releases him, backs up, and straightens his collar. “Good day.”


End file.
